Y'vonne Shadowbane
Jun 19th, 2004, 01:04:16 PM
"She'll just be a burden to you and your husband, Mrs. Shadowbane. It's best if you just leave her here and let us handle it.", the doctors had told the happy young couple a few minutes after the birth of their daughter, Y'vonne.
"Doctor, if it's all the same to you, our daughter will be coming home with us. You, along with your staff, can go to hell."
Arrangements were made to have the newborn infant transferred to a special care hospital, where she would undergo a battery of tests and exams to determine exactly what is wrong with her.
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Years later ....
If only they had known sixteen years ago just how much care and attention their daughter required, Mr. and Mrs. Shadowbane would have heeded the advice of the doctors and left her at the hospital. Y'vonne would have been placed in a crib, left alone in a dark and cold room. Nurses would not come and feed her and her cries would go unanswered. Quite simply - she would have been starved to death. Y'vonne would have died a slow and agonizing death. There are some who think that one to two weeks until the final breaths come isn't a long suffering. Perhaps they are right. There are those who are suffering in agony for years, decades even, before finally succumbing to eternal slumber. But, put yourself in the shoes of a helpless newborn who never asked to be born both physically and mentally disabled. Alone. In the dark. Cold. No one to hold you or comfort you. No one to change your diaper, bathe you, or rock you to sleep after a nice warm bottle. To this newborn, it would have been hell.
Wandering the city streets, Y'vonne has no idea where she is or where to go. People pass right on by, not bothering to give her a second look; unless its to stare and gawk at her. She's downs syndrome. Her eyes are gently slanted upwards, a touch too far apart and she's twenty to thirty pounds overweight. She walks funny, on the balls of her feet. She's intelligent, to a point. Doctor's had placed her on the intellectual level of an eight year old, never to achieve a higher IQ as she ages. Though, there are things that she can do that most eight year olds cannot. Her speech isn't easy to understand, as no one has properly educated her. Frustrated by the time she was seven years old with trying to communicate to the only person whom has ever been there for her, she stopped trying altogether, rendering herself a mute by choice.
Her caregiver, an older gentleman by the name of Jonathon Kartel, passed away in his sleep only a week and a half ago; back in the alley. Passersby didn't bother to stop and help. They didn't even bother to check to see if the man was alive, passing him off as another of the city's hapless, lazy bums. They looked at Y'vonne with disgust. She can't blame them, really. It's been weeks since she's had a bath and her clothes definitely need to be washed; if not thrown away completely and replaced with new ones. Jonathon took care of Y'vonne to the best of his abilities. A few years ago, he lost his job and the two had been wandering from town to town, city to city, as he did everything he could to get them back on their feet again. Pneumonia claimed his life as he was too weak to fight it off on his own without aid from medications.
Y'vonne's not a bad looking girl. She doesn't look normal, but if others understood - if they could understand that she is normal, just trapped in a mind and a body that won't allow her to do the things she wants to do, to allow her to say the things she wants to say ... if only they could understand.
Her eyes are the color of stormy blue, that deep dark shade with swirls of grey and pearl one sees as a storm approaches over the horizon on a summer day. They are gentle, kind and pleading. Her eyes speak the words she cannot. Currently filled with tears, she meanders into the boarded up doorway of a business that suffered a fire about a month ago. There, she slides down against the boards and draws her knees up close to her body. It is here that she simply cries in silence as the world passes her by.
"Doctor, if it's all the same to you, our daughter will be coming home with us. You, along with your staff, can go to hell."
Arrangements were made to have the newborn infant transferred to a special care hospital, where she would undergo a battery of tests and exams to determine exactly what is wrong with her.
-----
Years later ....
If only they had known sixteen years ago just how much care and attention their daughter required, Mr. and Mrs. Shadowbane would have heeded the advice of the doctors and left her at the hospital. Y'vonne would have been placed in a crib, left alone in a dark and cold room. Nurses would not come and feed her and her cries would go unanswered. Quite simply - she would have been starved to death. Y'vonne would have died a slow and agonizing death. There are some who think that one to two weeks until the final breaths come isn't a long suffering. Perhaps they are right. There are those who are suffering in agony for years, decades even, before finally succumbing to eternal slumber. But, put yourself in the shoes of a helpless newborn who never asked to be born both physically and mentally disabled. Alone. In the dark. Cold. No one to hold you or comfort you. No one to change your diaper, bathe you, or rock you to sleep after a nice warm bottle. To this newborn, it would have been hell.
Wandering the city streets, Y'vonne has no idea where she is or where to go. People pass right on by, not bothering to give her a second look; unless its to stare and gawk at her. She's downs syndrome. Her eyes are gently slanted upwards, a touch too far apart and she's twenty to thirty pounds overweight. She walks funny, on the balls of her feet. She's intelligent, to a point. Doctor's had placed her on the intellectual level of an eight year old, never to achieve a higher IQ as she ages. Though, there are things that she can do that most eight year olds cannot. Her speech isn't easy to understand, as no one has properly educated her. Frustrated by the time she was seven years old with trying to communicate to the only person whom has ever been there for her, she stopped trying altogether, rendering herself a mute by choice.
Her caregiver, an older gentleman by the name of Jonathon Kartel, passed away in his sleep only a week and a half ago; back in the alley. Passersby didn't bother to stop and help. They didn't even bother to check to see if the man was alive, passing him off as another of the city's hapless, lazy bums. They looked at Y'vonne with disgust. She can't blame them, really. It's been weeks since she's had a bath and her clothes definitely need to be washed; if not thrown away completely and replaced with new ones. Jonathon took care of Y'vonne to the best of his abilities. A few years ago, he lost his job and the two had been wandering from town to town, city to city, as he did everything he could to get them back on their feet again. Pneumonia claimed his life as he was too weak to fight it off on his own without aid from medications.
Y'vonne's not a bad looking girl. She doesn't look normal, but if others understood - if they could understand that she is normal, just trapped in a mind and a body that won't allow her to do the things she wants to do, to allow her to say the things she wants to say ... if only they could understand.
Her eyes are the color of stormy blue, that deep dark shade with swirls of grey and pearl one sees as a storm approaches over the horizon on a summer day. They are gentle, kind and pleading. Her eyes speak the words she cannot. Currently filled with tears, she meanders into the boarded up doorway of a business that suffered a fire about a month ago. There, she slides down against the boards and draws her knees up close to her body. It is here that she simply cries in silence as the world passes her by.